Victorian-Era Women and COVID-Suffering Me (say it fast like "American Woman.....stay away from meeeeee")

This is me.  Or how I am picturing myself as I lie upon my couch upon day three of COVID isolation and suffering.  What difference is there between myself and Victorian-era heroine enduring some terrible, undiagnosed illness and left in a constant state of repose while her active brain scrambles to make sense of her state, the world, and the nature outside her window?  None. Obviously.  Right now we are all so weary of COVID that we don't even stop to remember that people with it can still be so, so sick and it's easily dismissed and Victorian-age women were dismissed well, for being women.  Honestly, not one week before I got COVID, I know I said something stupid like "Haven't we all had it and not known it by now?".  I was a fool!!

As I started comparing myself to some Jane Austen character, I came upon more similarities.  Victorian women were often gasping for breath and faint and I too am currently gasping for breath and faint! True that in their case it was their whale-bone corsets and I haven't put on a bra since Saturday, but that is the only difference.  

Victorian-era women suffered from all sort of mental woes because they were expected to look pretty and play a role. My mental health is also suffering as I sit with only myself for company, feel I am going to be sick every day the rest of my life, and find all this time alone perfect for an existential crisis.  There is nothing quite like waking up fever-soaked, wondering where you are, and then instantly wondering why and how you are here.  Like on this Earth. 

Victorian-era women busied themselves with small things and projects that appeared dainty and didn't require much physical effort: painting, needlework, letter-writing.  I am also busying myself with small things!  Napping, moving from my bed to my couch to lie listlessly, and occasionally sitting upright.  Exhausting work.

Confined to their homes and even to their beds, Victorian-era women lived for an incoming letter full of news of the world outside what they could see from their window.  Their small worlds coming alive with the latest gossip, fashion, and perhaps a nod to a forbidden love.  Overjoyed with what the words on the page contained, she would smile or gasp, and lay a hand to her forehead while gazing out the window and seeing a whole new world.  I find myself listening for the "ping" on my computer announcing new email.  Sadly, I have only found a lot of "do these things!" in my email along with "Miss.  Can you grade my late work? I know it was late but you haven't graded it."  I press my hand to my forehead, shut the offensive screen, and stare out the window instead.  I still see my boxed-in patio and the siding missing from the water heater closet courtesy of the ice storm of 2021.  God, I really need a moor out my window.

I will say that today is the first day I woke up and felt slightly better and can see my world as a suffering Victorian-era woman coming to a close.  Writing this has helped me feel better because writing always makes me feel better.  Writing helped them feel better because it gave them a voice in a world that kept telling them to "shush".  Yuck!  Give me COVID, vaccines, no corsets, and a world I can speak loudly in any day. You know how I feel about being told to shush.  I would still like a moor out my window though.